


a strange date

by elmshore



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26314516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmshore/pseuds/elmshore
Summary: Nate is no stranger to dates, but this afternoon spent with Bellamy might just be the strangest he’s ever been on.
Relationships: Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell, Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell/Detective
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25





	a strange date

Nate likes to think, perhaps with just a touch of hubris, that he knows a thing or two about certain topics. Three hundred years he has lived, centuries worth of experience now reside within him, and surely, that must count for something. 

Dating, for example, is an area he feels quite confident in — has certainly gone on enough to last a lifetime — and yet as he sits here on the forest floor, arms resting on the mossy trunk of a fallen tree and the day fading quietly into night, he is sure of only one thing.

This is, by far, the strangest date he has ever been on.

Bellamy sits beside him, arms also on the trunk, so close that they brush against his own with every breath, and the look on their face is like nothing he has ever seen on them before. Excitement, resolve, and sheer focus — it mingles together, paints the picture of a person completely dedicated to their cause.

He watches as they bite their lip, worrying it between their teeth, and the sight is enough to him licking his own. Recalls, in crystal clear clarity, the taste of them — vanilla and just a hint of citrus, from the lip balm they favor, a delightful combination of sweet and tart. A flavor he has come to crave, the memory of it lingering on his tongue long after they kiss.

Distantly, a bird calls and he shakes away such thoughts, brings his attention to their other features, before he loses all sense of control. Their eyes are bright and steady, locked dead ahead, almost unblinking as they survey the empty clearing. A small, barely there, crease sits between their brow and his fingers itch with the urge to smooth it out.

No, he dares not disturb them now, so deep in their concentration.

And what an admirable concentration it is, given how normally restless they are — always moving, fingers twitching or feet tapping, body consistently rebelling against the very notion of staying still. Even in sleep they are restive, tossing and turning, catching only a few hours here or there before they are up again. It worries him, greatly, and he fears that one day, they will simply collapse from the strain of it all. 

Still, even he cannot help but ponder what else that fierce attention might achieve, were it to be applied elsewhere. But then a memory rises, of a strange little cleaning robot and sharp knives, of Felix’s laughter and Ava’s curses, and he represses a shudder. 

Perhaps such focus is better left to these endeavors, then.

Movement catches his eye and he glances down, watching with interest as Bellamy scribbles something into the massive binder resting in their lap. Even this close, he can scarcely make out the words written there. He loves them, truly he does, but there is no denying that their handwriting is...well, awful. Worse than Felix’s, a feat he never thought to see achieved.

“See something?” He asks, though he already knows the answer — after all, if _he_ has failed to notice any activity, he doubts _they_ would have seen anything. Bellamy is a keen observer, able to spot things often gone unseen or overlooked by others, but there is no competing with the eyesight of a vampire.

“Nah,” they mutter, chewing at the cap of their pen absently, a habit he has tried — to no avail — to dissuade against. Then, they sigh, and throw the object down, and slam the notebook shut with a loud _thud!_ , frowning. “Just updating the log, helps me keep track of things, even when all I can write is that there’s fucking nothing to report.”

“A useful practice,” he praises and when they groan in annoyance, he smiles. “Don’t fret love, I’m sure we’ll see something.”

And perhaps they will, only, not what they were _hoping_ to see.

Nate knows he ought to tell them the truth, that this supposed Mothman is nothing more than an urban legend, but how can he? Just speaking of the creature is enough to bring a light into their eyes, the likes of which he so rarely witnesses. The others had scoffed at his reasoning (save for Felix, who merely laughed), and Morgan actually threatened to tell them the truth herself, but a stern look had been more than enough to deter her.

After everything Bellamy has lost, all of the danger and risk brought into their life, he will not take this source of joy away from them.

Especially not now, when he can see for himself the fruits of years worth of labor and love. The mere size of the binder alone speaks volumes, but it is the contents that stand as a real testament to their dedication. Inside are files on all of the major urban legends, so much more than Mothman — from Bigfoot to Bloody Mary to La Llorona, they are all there.

Handwritten notes, newspaper clippings, articles from the internet, and even hand drawn sketches, all of them bound together, lovingly arranged in just the right order. Each and every one personally compiled by Bellamy, very nearly a lifetime’s worth of work. It is more than a simple notebook, it is a compendium, and it is impressive, no matter the legitimacy of the contents.

Bellamy sighs, rakes a hand through their thick curls, and begins to move. Drops the binder on the ground beside them and turns, falling back against the trunk. Lifts their legs, tucks them up into their chest, and wraps both arms around them. “I’m sorry,” they say, voice drawing him out of his own thoughts and back to reality. “I know this probably isn’t your idea of a fun time, sitting here in the dirt.”

They duck their head down, forehead resting atop their knees, and whisper, “Fucking stupid, dragging him out here, such a fucking idiot.”

The words are meant for themselves, but he hears them regardless and feels a tight pang in his chest at the harsh tone. He turns as well, leans back against the once mighty tree, and reaches for them. Wraps an arm around their shoulders and tucks them into his embrace. “There is no need to apologize, darling,” he tells them, twists, and drops a kiss into those soft curls. “Spending time with you is always a pleasure, one I shall happily partake in no matter the circumstances, dirt or not.”

An odd sound, deep in their throat, resounds and they lift their head, glancing his way. “You’ve got to stop being so nice to me,” they tease, but he spies the flush creeping along their cheeks, “or I’m going to get the impression you like me or something.”

“In that case, I will simply need to be _nicer_ to you.”

“Don’t know if it’s possible for you to be any nicer, Nate.”

“Oh, believe me,” he says and leans down, bumping their foreheads together. “You will be pleasantly surprised.”

The color staining their cheeks darkens, now a lovely shade of crimson, and he does not need his superior hearing to make out the sound of their heart, hammering away in their chest. Allows himself a moment to marvel at this — not only that he is the one to elicit such a response, but that they feel comfortable enough to let him see this side of themselves.

A softer side, so often hidden behind layers of stone and harsh words and cutting looks, walls built out of necessity. Barriers that seem to crack, however, when he is around, if only a little bit. It means more than he can ever put into words — has searched for them, in a multitude of languages, both living and long dead — how much he treasures this trust, delicate and so easily broken, that they have placed in his hands.

Hopes that he is worthy of it, that he does everything in his power not to squander this precious gift.

Nate knows how lowly they think of themselves. A lifetime of feeling abandoned and rejected has left hurts not easily healed and he understands, better than some might assume, how hard it is to unlearn such beliefs. Between their mother’s absences, the death of their father (and later, that of their beloved abuela), _Bobby_ — a growl rises in the back of his throat at the mere thought of the man and he is quick to move on, anger swelling — all of them, in one way or another, have had a hand in shaping the wounded figure now sitting at his side.

He would soothe those wounds, if he could. Tries, in his own way, to be the balm they need. If it is working, he cannot say — they are still so guarded with their emotions and thoughts, tiptoeing around them as if they were shards of glass. Instead, he is left only to pray that they understand his intentions.

That they feel the sincerity of his love, when words alone are nowhere near enough.

“May I ask you a question?”

His only response is a quiet hum of acquiescence and though he calls no attention to it, for fear they would stop, he does not fail when one of their hands drifts toward him, fingers ghosting along his leg. Even through the fabric, their touch is like electricity, crackling through him and setting his nerves alight and _oh_ , do they even know the effect they have on him?

He longs to take them into his arms, into his lap, to destroy any semblance of space between them, until there is no telling where one begins and the other ends. Wants to taste them, every inch of them, and to hear those delightful little sounds, the ones they try so hard to hide but that he has committed to memory. It would be so easy, he thinks, they are already so close, only a little more and — 

Nate stops that thought, puts an end to it with a shake of his head and tries, best as he can, to banish the images now filling his mind. Clears his throat, instead, and asks, “Why the interest in, ah, _cryptids_ , I believe you called them?”

Bellamy remains silent for a moment, and then another, and just as he makes to speak again, fearing something might be wrong, they turn their head and snort, shoulders shaking now with poorly contained laughter.

“As endearing as your laugh is, dear, I’m afraid I’ve missed the joke.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” they manage, finally sparing him a look, and the way those brown eyes sparkle in the setting sun is enough to make his heart flutter. “It’s just, the way you said it, you just sounded so — ” but they never finish the sentence, cutting themselves off with a cough and a sudden interest in the ground beneath them. “Ah, nothing, don’t worry about it.”

Ah, so they wish to play this game?

He leans down, mouth level with their ear, and oh, he can _feel_ the heat radiating off of them as they attempt, in vain, to hide the reaction he stirs within them. Adorable. “Please,” he purrs, hears their sharp intake of breath, and adds, “do finish your sentence, love.”

“I did,” they squeak and he would laugh, were he not so concentrated with the task at hand.

“I’m quite certain you didn’t, actually.”

“Really? Might want to get that vampire hearing checked, could be it’s going faulty.”

Nate allows the hand at their side to slide down, rests it against their hip, and is keenly aware of the way their pulse spikes, heart racing. Oh, but how he enjoys this. “Trust me, dear,” he says and when they shiver, his lips ghosting along the ridge of their ear, continues, “all of my senses are still in working order. Shall I show you?”

They tense and for a moment, he worries that this is too much. Knows that while they have been intimate, and that Bellamy is not adverse to his advances, there are still boundaries — lines not yet ready to be crossed. His mind wanders again to Bobby and he grits his teeth.

No, he will not be like him, who took and took from them, with no regard for their own wellbeing, who cared nothing for their own happiness.

And yet, as he goes to move, to give them space, a hand settles atop his leg and squeezes. Bellamy lets out a breathy laugh and says, “You know, I think it’s cheating when you use tactics like that, Agent Sewell.”

Relief floods through him and he stills, remains where he is, lips breaking into a pleased grin. “All the more reason to use them, Detective Santos.”

Bellamy huffs and gives his leg a little pinch, which he makes a show of pretending hurts before they laugh again. The sound is like sunshine, parting the storm clouds, and he wishes he could bottle it, could keep it forever. “You’re impossible,” they tease, affection clear in their tone, and he feels his heart swell.

“And you, love, have still not answered my question.”

“I wasn’t going to call you old,” they clarify then and he debates pointing out that he was actually referring to his _original_ question, but decides against it — is curious how they will explain themselves, this time. “Just that you sounded, uh, old fashioned.”

Now is his turn to laugh. “I’ll have you know that being considered old fashioned is a respectable trait, in many circles.”

“Sure, the _boring_ ones.”

He retaliates with a pinch of his own and they swat at him playfully, only for him to catch their hand in his. Laces their fingers together and squeezes. “I shall forgive the offense of your statement,” he murmurs, the warmth of them seeping into every fiber of him, “if you will answer my original inquiry: what began this curiosity of yours?”

“You mean, why do I waste my time chasing things people don’t believe in?”

“I would hardly call it a waste, more of a,” he pauses, searches for the right word, and then says, “passion.”

The look they give him is disbelieving and unimpressed, but they say nothing against it and merely sigh. “It was my abuela,” they start and he feels them lean into him, an action he is more than happy to allow. “She would tell me all sorts of stories when I was growing up, during the time I lived with her in Mexico. A lot of them were just, you know, the kind of stuff adults tell kids to make them behave, like, _Listen to your elders or La Llorona will come and drown you_ , that sort of thing.”

“Did it work?”

“Not really. I was five, so I mean, I don’t think even the threat of La Llorona herself could get me to make my bed every morning.”

“Perhaps we ought to share the tale with Felix, it might just work on him.”

They roll their eyes, lips twitching. “Nothing in this world, natural or not, will work on him.”

“You are no doubt corect,” he laments and falls silent, a cue for them to continue.

And continue they do. “She would tell us — my cousins and I, that is — tales passed down through the family. We were just kids, but she never held back, spared no gory or dark detail. I remember most of the others would get scared and run, or cover their ears, but not me. I loved them, just couldn’t get enough of them. Not sure why, maybe I’ve always been a little fucked up, but I like to think it’s because they’re mysteries and I wanted to solve them, to find the answers no one else could, or would.”

“A worthy goal.”

“Maybe, I mean, I haven’t actually _found_ anything, so I’m not doing a great job at it.”

“You will,” he assures, dips down and plants another kiss atop their head. Lingers, long enough to take in the scent of them — jasmine and sandalwood, light and earthy — before pulling back. “You did, after all, discover our little secret long before we told you.”

Bellamy’s lips quirk and they shake their head. “Doesn’t count, you guys were terrible at hiding the whole being vampires thing.”

“What gave it away? Felix’s comments?”

“That, and the way furniture just seemed to spontaneously combust whenever Ava so much as gets near them,” they add, lift a hand and begin counting on their fingers. “The way Morgan is still somehow alive after she smokes like a chimney, and oh! You.”

“And what, pray tell, did I do to give away my nature so readily?”

“You were too nice, and way too handsome, to be human.”

He perks and moves a hand to grasp their chin, tilting their head back so he can see their face clearly. “Think I’m handsome, do you?”

Their pupils dilate, but they cough and look away, that lovely hue spreading across their cheeks once more. “You _know_ you’re handsome, Nathaniel, don’t even try that,” they snicker, obviously trying to play the moment off.

Nate is merciless, however, and turns their head back to face him. Leans in and kisses them, a gentle thing, soft and sweet. When he pulls back, their face is practically beaming red and eyes half-lidded. “Perhaps, but I always love hearing it from you, dear heart.”

They lick their lips and he is lost. Kisses them again, claims their mouth with his own, and this is anything but gentle, filled with a fire and a hunger only they can inspire in him. Drops his hand, pulls back his arm, and moves, never once breaking away. Bellamy lowers their legs, spreads them, and he slots himself there, hands bracing on the trunk behind them. One of their own curls around his arm and he cannot stop the sound that reverberates in the back of his throat.

Hears them moan, a quiet little thing, and when their lips part for him, he wastes no time. The taste of them fills him and revels in it, sure that the flavor of them could sustain him for the rest of his days. Digs his nails into the decaying bark and presses closer, the heat of them burning through him like a wildfire.

They are always so very warm, his darling Bellamy.

He breaks the kiss, allows them to draw in a shaky breath, and lets his lips continue in their work. Leaves kisses along their jaw and over their ear, teeth dragging across the shell in a way that has them shuddering. Is careful not to linger at their neck — cannot, _will not_ — and then down further still, pushing past the collar of their shirt, seeking more of them.

Too many clothes, he muses, and his hands twitch with the sudden urge to be rid of them entirely.

A hand presses against his chest and their push is light, hardly there, but loathe as he is to do so, he heeds it all the same. Leans back and soaks in the sight of them, flushed and panting, lips swollen. Those eyes, normally such a lovely shade of copper, are almost black now, pupils blown wide and focused on him with a look that sparks through him, drowns him under the emotions filling them. 

There is no sight that could ever compare to the beauty of them, no art hanging in any museum could ever hope to come close to this.

“Nate,” Bellamy breathes and oh, how he could write sonnets about the way they say his name. Soft and lilting, no sweeter sound exists on this earth.

He tips forward and kisses them a third time, drinks in the flavor of them, savors it, and then pulls away. “Yes, love?”

“We shouldn’t do this, not here, I mean.”

“I doubt we are in any danger of being discovered,” he muses and returns to his previous task, lips trailing a pathway down their jaw and over their throat. Finds that one spot, the one that always leaves them whining in the most delightful of ways, where the neck meets the shoulder, and lingers there, hoping — and succeeding — in drawing that sound out a second time.

“It’s not that, it’s — _fuck_ ,” they gasp as he sucks a mark into the tender skin there, and he very nearly loses all self-control right then. “Nate, what if he sees us?”

The question is enough to make him stop, brow arching as he raises up to look at them. “Who?”

“Mothman. These are _his_ woods, after all.”

Oh, but of course, who else had he been expecting?

Deep within him, the urge to laugh begins to bubble toward the surface and he is quick to put a stopper on it, fighting to maintain a look of calm, sophisticated composure. Feels the corner of his lips quiver and curses himself. “Love, I don’t think he would mind.” _Because he is not real_ , his mind supplies, and he swallows the words, so close to the tip of his tongue, down.

“Just seems rude, is all.”

He chuckles, unable to keep it down fully, closes the gap between them and lets his lips hover inches from their own. “Well, should he have a problem with it, he may take it up with me.”

A hand slides across the back of his neck, fingers curling there, and Nate is unable to stop the growl that begins deep in his throat and works its way free. They start to speak, lips parting, and he strikes. Devours their words with his mouth, slicks his tongue over their own and when they tug him closer, he complies. Knows he would happily obey any order they might give him.

They whine again, the sound smothered by his kiss, and he pries a hand off the tree. Slides it down and under their button-up shirt, fingers gliding over the soft skin of their stomach. Likes the way their muscles jump under his touch, body alive and reactive, and continues upward, toward his mark. Brushes against the band of their bra and breaks the kiss, his own breath turning shallow.

“Do you wish to stop?” It would be a torment, but their comfort comes before anything else.

His only answer is fingers winding through his hair and tugging him back down, lips crashing into his own, and he accepts their answer eagerly. Pushes the bra up and allows his hand to cup one of their breasts, the moan that follows better than any song ever composed. Rolls the nipple between the pads of his thumb and index finger.

Bellamy lifts their legs, presses them against his sides, and he feels their hips buck, another snarl tearing out of him. The hand on his arm falls, moves down, and fumbles with the buckle of his belt. He grins into the kiss and shifts to assist them, fingers covering their own as he guides them in the motions.

They have only just accomplished their mission when the first roar of thunder cuts the air around them. Nate pulls out of the kiss and turns his eyes skyward, but spies no darkened clouds there. “Did the forecast call for rain?”

“No? I mean, not that I saw.”

“Ah, well it is probably — ”

Nature and irony have a funny sense of humor, it seems, and his words are drowned out by the sudden onslaught of rain. It falls hard and fast, drenching them before either has a chance to react. Bellamy curses, a long string of Spanish that he might scold, except he is too busy scrambling to get them both to their feet. Manages it, but only with great effort.

During the chaos, they bend down and scoop up their binder, tucking it under their arm and then their attention is on him, squinting to see him through the downpour. “Let’s get back to the car!”

“Agreed!”

They make a mad dash for the car. Nate is, once again, grateful that they did not have to walk far to reach the spot they chose and as the vehicle comes into view, Bellamy yanks the keys out of their pocket. Reaches the driver side and fights, momentarily, to open the door. “Oh for,” they curse, drop the keys, and dive down, “ _¡por el amor de Dios!_ ” 

He hears a distinct click and they wrench open the door, throwing themselves inside, slam it shut, and then, another click.

Nate joins them, fitting himself into the small confines of their car, and shuts the door behind him with a little less force, a heavy breath leaving him.

Silence settles over them, broken only by the low mutterings of Bellamy, who tosses the notebook into the backseat and then slouches in their seat, wiping the wet curls out of their face. He reaches across the space and tucks a few flyaways behind their ear, paying no mind to the droplets that slide down his wrist and into the sleeve of his shirt.

He is soaked, anyway, what is a little more water?

“Well, that was certainly, ah, bracing,” he jokes and lets the back of his hand trace the curve of their cheek, smiling when the look they give him is anything _but_ amused.

“I think that was the universe telling you to cool it down,” they snap, but there is no malice in the words, only amusement, and he laughs.

“Perhaps you are right,” he admits and reluctantly draws his hand back, letting it fall into his lap.

Bellamy looks ahead, at the storm raging just outside of the tiny car, and sighs, eyes sliding closed. “Sorry, seems my date idea didn’t really pan out, huh?”

“For what it’s worth, I had a grand time.” And he did, because any time spent with them is a blessing, one he will forever hold dear.

“We’re soaking wet, Nate.”

“And you look absolutely ravishing, dear.”

They groan, flush crawling up their neck, and fall forward, head bumping into the steering wheel. “ _Tú serás mi muerte_ ,” they whisper and he smirks, but says nothing at the remark.

“How about I treat you to dinner?” He suggests and watches as they perk, the offer of food clearly enough to make them, at least temporarily, forget their annoyance. “I haven’t cooked for you in too long, what do you say?”

Bellamy leans up and throws him a smile that sends a flood of warmth through him. “That sounds fucking amazing, actually.”

“It’s a date, then.”

The ride back to the warehouse is quiet, filled only with the sounds of the rain outside and the steady cadence of Bellamy’s heartbeat. This had, indeed, been one of the strangest dates he has ever been on — and he would do it all again, if given the chance.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not at all happy with this, it was such a struggle to write, but I finished it and might as well post it. Hopefully it's not too horrible. Also, I apologize if any of the Spanish is wrong, I tried to make sure it was accurate but, I might have messed it up somehow.
> 
> Kudos/comments are always appreciated, thank you for reading!


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